You set out to dig up what lies buried and the ground tightens exactly where the good has its roots. Your Part of Fortune, a calculated point your chart reads by its day or night sect, locks square to Pluto, the two wedged at right angles and torquing: power pulls toward the buried thing, what thrives in you begs you not to tear it out at the root, and that torque has forged how you seek well-being. You have demolished your contentment just to feel something move. You have mistrusted the still kind of good and called the suspicion wisdom. What the pressure forges is a depth that guards what is alive. Every time the intensity collided with your peace, the heat tempered one more layer of your embodied joy.
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